


a reprieve

by robokittens



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, Whipping, hurt and a little bit of comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 20:11:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8636608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: "Please," the boy breathes out. "So I'll learn."





	

**Author's Note:**

> this, obviously, is reserve's fault; it is also of a higher quality thanks to her ♥

The boy faces away from him, head bowed and trembling, and Graves — he's Graves now, through and through — watches as his narrow elbows twitch. He can hear the sound of the belt as it slides through its loops, a leather on fabric sound that's somehow slick and wet.

_What —_ he thinks but doesn't say, won't show weakness or confusion. He doesn't like it, the meager power this boy has over him. Doesn't like needing him, for anything, at all.

The boy holds an arm out to one side, belt looped in his fist. His head dips even lower; Graves can see the fine shaven hairs at the base of his neck, can see the single bead of sweat quivering there. 

"Here," the boy says, so softly that Graves can barely hear him. Probably wouldn't be able to hear him at all without the protective bubble he'd cast around them, a simple spell that deadens the world outside, that dims the alley they stand in and lends a slight shimmer to the brickwork the boy presses his empty hand against, bracing himself.

"Credence," Graves says quietly. The boy's hand shakes, the belt rattling softly. The bead of sweat drips into his collar.

"I know," the boy says, quiet enough that Graves instinctively takes a step closer. "I know, I've failed you, I've —"

Graves' hand wraps around the boy's, large fingers holding it still. He feels so fragile in Graves' grasp.

"This is what she does," Graves says. It's a realization; he says it like a fact.

"Please," the boy breathes out. "So I'll learn."

His fingers tighten. He takes a step closer, feels the boy shake against him. Graves moves his other hand, draws it across the boy's waist. He has one hand on the button of the boy's fly when he pauses. Lets go. Takes a step back.

"Pull down your pants," he says, voice lower, rougher than he'd expected.

The boy flinches; Graves is still close enough to feel it. But he obeys: slowly, one hand still offering up his belt, he undoes his fly and shimmies his pants down his narrow hips.

"Those, too," Graves says. He nods, though the boy can't see it, to the boy's thin, washed-looking underwear. He takes pity on him, pulls the belt slowly from his still-trembling grasp, and tests its heft against his own hand as the boy eases his briefs down to his knees.

"Please," the boy says again. He has both hands braced against the wall now, head tilted down, his backside pushed out. If he looks closely, Graves can see the criss-crossing of scars.

Graves has hurt people before. He's hurt many people, for many reasons, and always cruelly. He's never had to hurt someone delicately. His fingers tighten around the belt, and he pulls it taut.

"Twelve lashes," he says. "One for every time we've met, every time you haven't brought me what I need. Because I need —" He snaps the belt lightly across the boy's thighs, barely hard enough for the boy to flinch. Not hard enough to count. "— I need that child, Credence, do you understand?"

" _Yes_ ," the boy says, and it's a gasp.

"Twelve lashes," Graves repeats. "And you'll count them."

"Yes sir."

Graves pulls the belt taut again, feels its weight in his hands. Imagines it ripping into pale flesh, and then looks up again to see all that pale flesh exposed, the curve of his ass peeking out from under the dark of his jacket. He wishes he could see the boy's back, should have made him undress fully. Still. This will do.

He's not sure when this stopped being something the boy needs and started being something he wants.

The first lash is almost tentative, Graves getting his footing — this is intimate, he thinks, far more so than Crucio. Although he can imagine that too, the boy writhing in the glow of the Unforgivable Curse —

"One," the boy says, and his voice is very nearly steady.

"Two," the boy says, and "Three."

It's on six that his voice breaks.

Graves wonders how he takes it at home, if his mother's lashes are harsher than Graves' own, if it takes less time for the boy to break or if he holds himself firm, stronger against his mother's hand.

He wonders if it matters, that this was of his choosing. The boy feels he needs it, deserves it, and — he asked for it.

He strikes again. The boy gasps, and then chokes out, "Nine."

There's an impulse, unfamiliar, to soothe; a moment where he wants to reach out with a kind touch. He squashes it.

"Ten!" The boy's voice rings in the quiet of the alley, and Graves feels a strange tug at his lips.

"Eleven" is quiet again, followed by a weak "Twelve, sir, twelve."

Graves lets the belt clatter against the ground.

"Very good," he says, and watches as the boy folds on himself, barely staying upright with the help of the wall. It must be rough against his cheek, abrasive, but perhaps he can't feel it over the stinging in his ass, his thighs. They're pink, red in spots, raw-looking. Graves feels a surge of appreciation for this No-Maj weapon.

He says nothing more, merely watches as the boy slowly rights himself, as much as his habitual hunch will allow, as he pulls up his pants with trembling hands.

The boy is still shaking when he turns around, shoulder curled forward, and even through his pants Graves can see that he's getting hard — has been half-hard, maybe, this whole time. He takes a step forward, softly cups the boy's erection.

He's barely had time to marvel at the way the boy fits neatly into his hand, at the way a shiver wracks his thin frame, before the boy is speaking. 

"Please," he says, and Graves' grip tightens. 

"Please," he says again, "no. Stop."

He's crying, Graves realizes.

"Shh," Graves says, tender despite himself. He lessens his hold on the boy's erection but doesn't let go, and the boy sags against him, presses his wet cheeks to Graves' chest.

"I've never—" the boy gasps out.

"I know," Graves murmurs. He noses at the boy's hair and massages his prick gently through his pants. "You've been waiting for me, haven't you? You need my help. Like I need your help, Credence."

He keeps up an even, slow pace until the boy comes with a soft sound that vibrates against Graves' chest; he shudders helplessly and pulses against Graves' hand. Graves can feel the damp spot spreading there.

"That's good," he says, and lifts his other hand to touch the boy's neck, cradle the back of his skull.

He holds him there, just a moment. When the boy pulls back, letting Graves' hand drift from his neck down to his shoulder, his face is tear-stained, as blotchy and red as his backside had been.

"Shh," Graves says again. He brings his hand up to swipe across the boy's cheek, watches as his eyelashes flutter wetly, clumped together thick and black and damp.

He tilts the boy's face up, and the boy's eyes widen.

Graves leans in, and slowly presses his dry lips to the boy's wet cheeks.

"That's good," Graves says, and pulls the boy back to rest against his chest. The boy shivers against him. "That's very good."


End file.
